Monday, April 28, 2008

Coming Soon:


May 5-
copies of
Baby Is My Business

in circulation.

On the site
In the near future-
beatific
an old short story, revisited















"I love you"

Mattress
is a table;
bed sheet--

a page.

We are written,

like
question marks
at the end

of a sentence.


The same one

we throw around

each other.

my horoscope (4.23-4.29) PISCES


i didn't write this, but it's too perfect. thank you New York Press, again:

you may feel that recent events represent the last nail in your metaphorical coffin. sure, if you keep on as you have been, it won't be long before you're effectively (and still metaphorically) dead and buried, but there's still an amazingly good chance to turn this around. it's just a matter of shifting your perspective and rethinking not only your desintation, but your route. after all, a well built coffin could probably make a decent boat, or shelter from the rain, or toboggan, with only a few adjustments. what minor alterations can you make to this seemingly untenable situation that will turn it on its head? this week is a good one to try to impliment any that you can think of.
just go out there and do it.

For my friends:


Imagine that we are getting older
and maybe wiser
but the road ahead is infinite.

Imagine that we are no longer
self-deprecating.

Imagine that we are capable
of being surprised
without the pain of shock.

Imagine that we are always
forces to be reckoned with.

Imagine that we are proud
to want more,
just as proud
when we get it.

Imagine that we are eager
to peak around the corner
at what's
next.

Imagine that we accept
that life will always
be hard-
er than we want.

Imagine that we remember
who we once were
and we're much better
now
somehow.

Found in a tiny notebook under my desk

The New Teacher
A young student picks up the chalk and the grading book, she says to the class, "I'm your new teacher."


"You wait until the teacher comes back," scolds the principal, "Don't do this to your teacher, he's planned the year so well."

"I know," says the student, "I can follow the plans."

When the teacher comes back, he's got pencils and blank notebooks. As he slips into a seat in the front row and says, "Hi teacher and principal, I'm ready to learn."

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Alphabetical Prose Adaptation




This is one of my first attempts at hybrid poetry: I wanted a clear structure (ABC) to run through the prose poem and I wanted it to read like a story (with a character who changes by the end) and it's an adaptation of a No Doubt song, by the same name.

Artificial Sweetener

"Admitting that you have a problem is the first step," says the twenty-something receptionist, a platinum-blonde 'Betty Ford in training.'
Bioconditional comes to mind when I pick up the block of wood with admissions engraved in it and ask her, "Is this a clever pun to let me in, or to get me to admit my guilt?"
"Call it what you will," she says, tilting her head the way my dealer does after answering his door to me at 3 in the morning.
D
enial works if you get too good at doing a bad impersonation of yourself (or too good at being stubborn and selfish).
Electric kool-aid powder, nose candy, rock star, snow, white powder, or yayo; whatever, in the end it's pure cocain; and you would shudder to admit addiction too.
F
lashbacks of show-and-tell in kindergarten run through my mind; I feel like I'm showcasing the worst part of me all over again.
Gnawing pencils was my first habit; I chose to display the six that lined my desk.
"How are you going to receive help if you don't admit what you're problem is?" The little Betty asks while tapping the blank page she found in the file I placed next to
admissions.
I know how disgusting I look to her; yellowing (in every sense of the word) right in front of her chubby pink face. Just another gaunt junkie, hell maybe receptionists at Betty Ford clinics expect snot to drip down to every body's lip. Key detail: I let rust-colored snot from each nostril meet at the top of the crevice and then slide down to my lip; three times so far, right down the middle.
"Lady, you have to stop second-guessing yourself, you have to let us assess your situation with substance abuse," she says in the same tone my mother used when I wouldn't eat my dinner.

"My heart's losing the race, but I want to hold on to life," my voice scratches like it's been numb for days.
n
auseous is the only real thing i feel i pretend love and hate i fake jealousy and gratitude i'm full-up with artificial sweeteners i've got cavities to show for it. on too many occasion i've been spun like a top to the point when speed bumps won't even try to stop me.
Pushing her buttons is the worst idea if I want to join her side, if I want to undo and re-do all of the mistakes I've made.
"Quit with the euphemisms, I know you're a coke head, I can see bloody tissues sticking out of your pockets," she snaps.

Red-spotted Kleenex sprout from all four pockets the same way feather boas fluff in starlet's arms at red carpet events.
S
mall things, the signs and such, it's stupid of me to think she wouldn't know what I am, but then again,
I'm only sure that I'm unsure.
"Tell me this," I say, so close I can smell her Cover Girl make-up, "What chances do I really have of quitting?" Understand one aspect of drug addicts: it is unimaginable to each how something that makes them feel so good can cause such inadequacy.
"Various factors," she clears her throat, "play into the success rate of every patient." When she stamps sanction (in red) on my file, she looks at me as if she knows I"m thinking of bicondition again.
"X marks the spot--right, sign even though neither of us know if I'm getting approval or punishment," I say as I loop the ink into the curves of my name.
Yet, I really don't care because at least I'll learn to feel something real again.
"Zen meditation and insight hours will help you most," she yells through the door that swings behind me as I walk down the white hallway to my empty room.

Written on a Burger King bag in my car the summer before college


Discrepancy?

if you walked to his door

would you ask satan if he's cold? does he have water for blood?

no one blames fools for trying
even the honest are lying

if you find justice
, is it time
to end the search?


the lonely don't always
sit while crying.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

One of my Favorite Poems


Harvest Moon

A beautiful woman and an ugly man stand on a corner in Times Square. They wait for the signal to walk. The ugly man says, A beautiful, little woman here to be a model or an actress on the big screen? Can you sing me a song, the tune of your heart that will top the charts?

I am the dirt under the feet of a diligent farmer. Trudging on me, he leaves the mark of his soul on my face. In my nose, he plants a seed.

The ugly man says, A beautiful, little woman, you should be up on that billboard, not a can of Pepsi. It should be your face on the television, not that news anchor who lies.

I am a corn stalk with ears that touch the sky. I will reach God today, "What's the meaning of life?" I will ask him.

The ugly man says, A beautiful, little woman, you're not meant to walk, come home with me and I will lie you down on my bed. I will paint your portriat, better than The Birth of Venus.

The sun is setting, says the beautiful woman while looking up through the skyscrapers. The harvest moon will be out tonight.

From the vault of errors


An Attempt at Not Being Romantic

mistake
hit or miss
smoke another cigarette
she fucked so and so
to fuck with you
mistake two
credit or debt
spit fire for words
flames for her
she lost herself
a bad impersonation
mistake three
forgive and forget
you think not
she thinks more
she's got guilt in bed
you lie for the same reason
mistake four
cause and effect

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

some melodramadic poems about music and love



fingers
move on the neck
of his guitar.
she ponders
the way
they would race
across
her body.



a girl's guide
to a p
re-mature rock-star
lies in
the hands
of mus
ic gods--
some hold false hope
like plastic picks
while th
e riff
lingers in the air,

swirling the beat
around
wooden drumsticks.
she lets the cigarette
flicker.
ambiance stands alone
with the rhythm
of a thousand tiny bells
echoing like screams
lost with the feed-back.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

A dawn poem, written at dusk

Morning Bowl of Cereal
Paranoia is why I get up
in the morning

and my definition ends there.

Still fresh citrus rises through a clear straw--
I pick my friend
s like I pick fruit.

Yet I'm aware of my translucency and I can't stop
taking you in,

--smoking--
can't stop loving
the way you coo
l hot food
only after it's in your mouth.

I forget about my ripped jeans
and cold knees.
I become a blind man in a dark room
looking for tha
t cat
who slipped out the door
because of its
fear of mice.

Silence is a kind of violence
when we're really listening and
violence a kind
of lust
if we're utterly lonely.

Love affairs are like cross word puzzles
without the vowels.

Eventually the world will start over again.

Leaves the color of rust reach
through the brances of leaves, still green.
Where's the change?
Can we overstand?

I tell myself I own three dogs
when actually, they own me.

After it all ends
I'll write books
about the way things should have been.

Friday, April 11, 2008

I love finding poems I forgot I wrote


I found this one on the blank page at the end of an amazing book, PLOT, by Claudia Rankine

through all our conquests and queries
we have moments
to relax,
a few more to regret.
perhaps it's a matter of
breaking our own hearts
for the mere chance at mending them.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Procrastination

i love this picture. luke, a two-year-old i hang out with on most monday mornings, snatched my camera and snapped it.
i have also had writer's block for about two weeks and it's been horrible. i finally have the outline for the last two sections of my book (was planning on one, but it grew to two during planning) but now it's nearing 2 in the morning and i have no desire for an all nighter.

so i'm procrastinating more.

i am a diamond,
made under pressure.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

I'm not even sure if this is mine, but I found it on my post-it, in my handwriting


I'm singing because
my tear ducts are too tired,
my brain is disconnected
but my heart remains wired.

I miss substituting
the conclusion to confrontation
with a kiss.

I miss walking to the edge
and jumping in
like I can feel
the future on your skin.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Napkin poem, Part 4


Sounds

Wayne Koestenbaum wrote
something about the greatest sound
was that of baby food jars opening.
Something in the way it POPS.
I tend to agree.

At this moment
all I hear is a fan
blowing, and charms clank
on the wall because.
I would rather
listen to milk steamers.

Once I wrote a love note
to a boyfriend;
in it I said,
"I'm thinking about you.
As I write this
and while you're reading."

I wonder now,
if the only sound
you can hear
are my words
in your head.

Yesterday I asked a girl
who talks too fast
to read
her favorite poem.
She slowed down.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

music lover*

A loose imitation of "Dear Boy George**" by Amy Gestler

(picture not from the same concert-going experience)


Dear Dave Grohl,

I have a weakness for men with tattoos, musicians, cheesy smiles, and songs that enhance whatever mood I'm in. You, you make me so weak i could just lie in bed all day listening to your voice, looking at the picture of you (the one where you're wearing that "Virginia is for LOVERS" t-shirt). You played the drums with Nirvana, and when you made a come back as the lead singer and guitar player of Foo Fighters, I was actually happy Kurt was out of the picture. I'm sorry, i know he was your friend, but that band would have died if he didn't and Foo Fighters have insane lasting power. The kind you deserve. I think of you as the true survivor of the grunge era. I could marry you. I would cook you dinner and help you write lyrics before band practice. When I saw you in concert, about six years ago, you stopped in the middle of "Generator" and said, "Hey! Give that girl her shirt back, it looks like she wants it," then you went right back into "Yeah, can't you hear my motored heart? You're the one that started it." I was that girl! I did want my shirt back! See, you were looking out for me. I was so pissed when Courtney Love wanted to have all the rights to Nirvana's music. I mean, come on, she didn't make any of it! You and Krist Novoselic did! I'd give anything to be a judge, and just relinquish all the rights Courtney has over the legendary band, and then go out with you to a dive bar to celebrate the release of the 10th anniversary box set. We would sit and smoke cigarettes, talking about broken hearts and drunken injuries.***

*true story

**I met Boy George once. I had traveled all day from my parent's house in Indiana and was waiting for a cab company. I reached into my pocket, where I hid the lighter from security, then lit my cigarette. I large, bald white man approached and asked, in an English accent, for the lighter. He asked how I was able to still have one. (This was before they realized what a waste of money it is to collect lighters--from smokers--just to dispose of them.) I knew after 30 seconds it was him, but he wasn't the image VH1 flashed on the TV. He had a large tattoo on his scalp, running from the top of the head down to his neck. It resembled measuring tape, only it was black and white. There was a scrawny man, wearing cowboy boots, with him. He didn't speak.

***I have changed the last sentence about 8 times and I still don't like it, help me please.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Dedicated to hair-dye


Dye (or Montaigne)

Since change is the only constant attribute in life, sometimes concentrating on a single facet is necessary. If you're unsure, or unready--if you're unavailable or disinterested, then he will try to change you, he will convince you, wait for you, and enable you.
You will dye your hair for him. He wants you to use energy only on the aspects you can change. (You are naturally blonde, what the hair-dye box calls number 88. But you've altered yourself to match that of 92. Now you want to regress to 91--simple, straightforward, and trouble-free.) He will say to you, put that number 93 over the top of that 91, it will look better than this 92 that you have taken on for identity.
He will say don't be overwhelmed by the things that are out of your control. But he will not tell you if the box says ash your hair has a chance of turning green. You will cry and throw your hair brush against the wall and he will say you only have control over how you react. You will tell him to shut up.
He will join you in the bathroom. While you lay on the tile floor combing your fingers through your hair, he will mix the number 93. You need a new technique of self-fashioning and discovery, he will say to you as you rinse your hair.
Later that night, before bed, you will share a cigarette with him and he will touch your number 92 hair with the tips of his fingers, and tell you that sometimes freedom and restriction are the same thing. Each come from change, but freedom lets you change back.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

At This Exact Current Moment, I Feel*


i'm trying

i'm trying

i'm trying

i'm trying

i'm trying

i'm trying

yes sometimes i am very trying.
eventually i outgrew
that, and started
doing what i wanted.

Does graduating college mean that i need
to have my shit together?
i'm torn on the matter.

i look back
on all my history
my story
i'll make the me
who walks across that stage
who i want to be.

i wouldn't have
this desire
had i not been a writer,
one who writes
the story
about the way things should have been.


*I feel this way as i write it, probably not at the same time you read it.


Freshman Napkin Poems, Part 3

Can Robots
have hairy knuckles?

I used to play with Barbies.

I'd run them over
with remote control cars.
Inatimate,

they laid there for me.
Hair caught
in the turning wheels.
Yes!

Freshman Napkin Poems, Part 2


i smoke
i drin
k
and every time
i blink
i have
a little dream
i like
that i'm worse
than you
seem to think
i am.




i float
a ship wr
eck
fallen
to pieces
in the pastel glow
of the sun
on calm waves

Freshman Napkin Poems, Part 1


She holds her pen like a nicotine fiend,
looks out the window
through her own image.
She smiles her past away.
The city bus rides like an old carousel,
yet she smiles

and he sees the curl of her lip.
A glistening side view--
white picket fences for teeth.

His fantasies sway off the bus,
hanging on the young woman's hips--
when she turned and rose from the seat,
in a single blink,
she was no longer a reflection.
no long with a smile,
lips wrap grimace around her face
like bandages--
each holding shards of glass in her mouth.

For Lindsay Lohan circa 2007

Sexy Me Poem

Look at sexy me with my sexy lips puffed and sexy red Look at me in my sexy skinny skinny jeans sexy
Look at sexy me with sexy toes stuffed up through my sexy peak-a-boo sexy black heels Look at me all sexy and sex Look at me in sexy high definition Look at me on sexy-glossed magazine paper Look at sexy me sexing up the internet Look at sexy me sexier than you Sexy Sex oozes from my sexy vagina and Sexy Sex bleeds from my sexy cuts on my sexy arm Look at sexy me with my sexy ass on the dance floor.

*This is an imitation of Jennifer Knox's poem, "Hot Ass Poem." It's way better than mine, so check it out.